


And Make Them All My Souvenirs

by roseandheather



Category: Code Black (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christa Is A Total Bleeding Heart, F/M, Fluff, Neal Is Slightly Emotionally Constipated, Tag to 1x15, The Author Is Very Sorry About Her Italics Addiction, They Deal With It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5897350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseandheather/pseuds/roseandheather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's devastated. He gets it. They patch things up. Because "love is patient, and kind."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Make Them All My Souvenirs

"Going my way?"

The sun seems unnaturally bright after the darkness inside, striking off Christa's fair hair and the cars in the lot, and he shades his eyes against it as she turns to face him.

"Do you want me to be?" She sounds meek, even scared, and there's a harshness to her tone that could have come from screaming, from terror, from rage or from all three at once.

He knows her now, can read the glint in her eyes, the fine lines at the corners, the wrinkles in her forehead. She is scared, and sorry, and he _gets_ it. He's hurting still, but he _gets_ it - knows from too much experience that British privacy, British reticence, is all too often read as hesitation instead, and he wishes...

But that doesn't matter now. Only the beginnings of Christa's smile, tentative and shy, and the way his own face aches to smile back when he sees her.

"Take a ride with me," he says gently, and they don't say a word for the rest of the drive back to his place.

He's barely set his bag down before she's turning to him, eyes big and blue and achingly beautiful. "Neal, I'm _sorry,_ " she gasps, and presses her fingertips to damp lashes. "Leanne told me what you said, what you did, and I'm so _sorry -_ I was scared, and hurt, because I _totally_ misread you and I thought this _had_ to be too good to last, that you'd come to your senses and you - "

Neal does the only thing he can. He steps forward, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her.

She chokes out a little cry and melts against him, arms coming around his neck, and finally tears her mouth away to bury her face in his shoulder.

He hugs her tight, murmuring soothing nonsense in her ear. "It's all right, darling," he says, over and over. "I understand. I promise I do. It's all right, Christa. It's all right."

While she cries herself out he manoeuvres them to the couch, lets her curl up on his lap, tugs the tie out of her hair and runs his fingers through the soft blonde strands, and when she's finished at last she just rests her head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she whispers again, and he just kisses her hair and says, "I know."

"I was just startled," he continues. "That's all. I'm not _hesitant_ about this, Christa. I'm just used to keeping my private life private. I'm not ashamed of you, or of this, and I can't imagine why I ever would be. I'm just - "

"- British," Christa finishes for him, and laughs a little - sad, wet, but a laugh nonetheless. "And if I'd stuck around for thirty seconds instead of assuming things, of letting my past rule my future, you'd have been able to tell me that, wouldn't you?"

"Well," says Neal, tightening his arms around her. "Yes." She shakes her head and opens her mouth, but he cuts her off. "And don't you _dare_ say sorry again. I _know_ you by now, darling, and I know you lash out when you're hurting. It wasn't kind, and it wasn't sensible, but I get it. I _do._ It wasn't the first time you've shouted at me and I doubt it'll be the last."

Wonderingly, she shakes her head. "Why would you even put up with that? With _me?_ You're right, I do lash out when I'm hurt. I'm temperamental, and I can't keep my emotions in check, and - "

" - you are the kindest, most empathetic person I have ever known," he says simply, and Christa lifts herself away from his shoulder to look him in the eyes, startled. "Christa, darling, one of the things I - " (and here he shies away from a four-letter word that will change everything, because it's too much too soon, because first she needs to _believe_ ) " - cherish most about you is how much you _feel._ You have no idea how much courage that takes, do you? To open yourself up like that, to wear your heart on your sleeve? That much empathy, that much _caring_ \- it _astounds_ me, Christa. And it is a privilege that you trust me with it. In any way - but especially _this_ way."

"So we're okay?" Her voice is everything she can't say - bewilderment, gratitude, overwhelming affection - too much of everything, maybe too soon, but with her, it's worth the risk.

"Well, if we're not, I'd better go talk to H.R. again," he says, deadpan, and she stares at him for a long moment before a wry, relieved smile starts on her face.

"Oh, _you -!_ " she groans, and punches him lightly on the shoulder, her eyes twinkling again at last.

He takes her hand and kisses it, knuckles first, then her fingertips, then her palm, and when his lips move to hers at last neither of them are laughing any more.

They'll wake each other with nightmares, in the days and weeks and months ahead. Bolted awake, screaming, soaked in sweat, panting and wild-eyed and clinging to each other as the harrowing memories recede from the present to the past. Night after night, pounding pulse after pounding pulse, they will cling to each other and remind themselves to breathe.

Christa does shout when she's hurt, and when she's angry. He is frustratingly British, she cries at the drop of a hat. Sometimes the old insecurities, nearly erased by four years in medical school and the gruelling months afterward, almost take her over, and she takes his reticence for anger or disinterest, and there is shouting and slammed doors and frustrated sighs. Sometimes she takes an argument too personally, sometimes he doesn't know how to reach her when she's lost in the maelstrom of fear and anger and despair.

But he is always in awe of her courage, and she is always in awe of his kindness, and they're always in awe of each other. And at the end of the day, it's enough. So much more than enough.

At the end of the day, it's everything.

 

 


End file.
